


meminerunt omnia amantes (lovers remember all)

by septici



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angel Ryan Bergara, Demon Shane Madej, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt No Comfort, Latin, M/M, Roman Mythological Themes, Semi-graphic violence, im failing latin ok, it doesnt really have an ending ngl, its kinda a character study?? and also me wanting to write something roman, loads of swords, the latin in this killed me, this isnt very good its kinda a vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 03:09:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septici/pseuds/septici
Summary: “You need rest.”“What’s with the sudden morality,amice?” Ryan taunts him, using the friendly word as something less endearing and more mocking. Shane can hear the sting of his rejection underlaying Ryan's tone; it makes his hackles rise, but he urges Ryan back to the sofa with his hands. “Shane, it’s fine. It’ll heal quickly, the ichor helps it do that.”“Ryan, I’m not about to debate you on this. You’re injured; therefore, you’re resting until you’re healed,” Shane replies firmly, allowing some of hisdaemonisstrength to ripple through his muscles as he manhandles Ryan back into a reclined position. A few years Shane’s junior, he almost has to crane his neck to scowl at him. It almost makes him smile, the familiarity of the situation; Ryan’s unprecedented hard-headedness makes him incredibly stubborn and hard to level with on the best of days. He rises to his full height and crosses his arms in a contest of Ryan’s obstinacy.---or, ryan is part-angel, shane is part-demon, they fight





	meminerunt omnia amantes (lovers remember all)

**Author's Note:**

> this is very very very very very historically inaccurate just so ur all aware... its also trash and not proof-read
> 
> theres a glossary for all the latin in the end notes!

Ryan doesn’t recall how he found himself in this battle, but he’s here now. All around him are the sounds of metal hitting metal, swords clashing armour and flesh, the screams of the dying and the manic laughter of Pluto as he accepts more souls into Hell. He breathes, adjusting his grip on his sword for a fraction of a second, before cutting a man across the torso. He swings his sword down across the neck of a man who threatens him, slitting his jugular vein and getting himself doused in a streaming fountain of Satan’s sinuous skin. 

A roar to the right of him alerts him just in time to two charging men, one brandishing an axe and the other a sword. Ryan holds his own blade in a defensive stance, his ears ringing from the clattering dissonance of steel meeting. Something he has noticed is the opposition’s lack of defence – they seem to be more content playing the game offensively. Ryan thinks, as he mows the two down, carving his path towards the central _domus_ of the town, that playing only offensively will get them nowhere. Beside him, a soldier from his same army lets out a wild screech as a deep gauge is sliced out of his shoulder. Ryan turns his blade, following its movements as a liquid flows, slashing the screaming soldier’s assailant. He crouches down next to the injured man and begins to hastily bandage his wound so that he will not bleed to death. 

Another cry, this one louder somehow, despite being further away, takes Ryan’s attention away from his bleeding counterpart, and he turns to see a burst of flames, and the silhouette of a man forming in them, longsword held tight in his hands. Ryan adjusts his grip on his own weapon, a Claymore with a lighter blade, requiring only one hand for use. He swallows roughly: he knows the meaning of the flames, and he’s certain his enemy does too. He wonders if the _Parcae_ will them to win this battle. It seems so; the arrival of a _daemon_ would suggest as such. Ryan feels guilty then; though a trained soldier, he has never been able to see the enemy as inhuman, or below him. He supposes it’s his angelic blood at play; he can’t help but view everyone as equals, except for those with demonic blood. It’s something ingrained into his nature to view demons and anyone part- _daemon_ that way. 

In his distraction, he is pounced upon by a rival soldier, and nearly loses his footing. He grits his teeth and focuses his strength into the movement of his sword, unseaming the man from his navel to his neck. Ryan makes a quick dash then, darting around the flying swords, and breaches the threshold of the palace. He notices immediately that he is not the first of his army to do so and is washed with relief. Behind him, he hears footsteps, causing him to tighten his grip on the hilt of his blade and steal a glance over his shoulder. He can’t tell if it’s a relief or hindrance that, instead of a man waiting to kill him, there stands the _daemon_.

“ _Di immortales!_ ” Ryan mutters, recognition dawning on him like a storm upon a country. His face draws into a scowl; before him stands Shane, and out of all of the _daemones_ that could possibly have been sent to aid their side by Mars, Ryan curses that He would choose this one.

“No god here, _amice_ ,” Shane says back, swinging his longsword upon a man and separating his torso from his legs. Ryan winces despite himself, and Shane laughs. “ _Memento mori_ , Ryan. Good to see you again.” He ducks into the fight happening in the main atrium of the _domus_ , leaving Ryan slightly confused and very disgusted. His skin is crawling, itching where the blood of others taints it. He is only allowed a moment to consider what Shane had meant by ‘remember your mortality’, so he does it quickly. While he may be part- _angelus_ , he is not, as some are, immortal – but then, neither is Shane, so Ryan fails to see the relevance of such a comment.

He is pulled from his pondering by another blade, and then he finds himself wrapped back up in the fight, watching his sword move as if his arms have their own autonomy. Ryan’s own seems to take a backseat, and he lets himself stop thinking and just fight – the more he does so, the less will have to be done tomorrow, and the day after. That is to assume that there will be a tomorrow of this battle; with Shane’s presence and the infiltration of the _domus_ , Ryan doubts that the opposition will last much longer; if they do, he will certainly be very impressed. Ryan continues carving his way through the _domus_ , his sword sending more people to Pluto than he cares to count. A familiar ache settles into his muscles, exhaustion sweeping over him in sporadic intervals, some waves of it more intense than others. He takes a moment to breathe, and that is perhaps why it happens. 

Ryan barely has time to think before a man is upon him, his sword slashing wildly at Ryan’s flesh. The _angelus_ lets out a wounded cry, something so unmistakeable and distinct that he’s sure someone is to hear it. In the meantime, the man forces him to the floor with an ease that would normally embarrass him and serve to fuel his determination, but now just makes him more tired, ready to accept his death. _Memento mori_ , he thinks with an internal smile. Out of his side, he feels blood draining, mixing with the blood of enemy and ally alike as it spreads across the floor. Ryan can only tell his own blood apart from the others by its unnatural sheen, something slightly golden, like ichor. The man who wounded him crows with delight upon seeing this for himself; he’s proud to have cut down an _angelus_ , to have defeated something so pure. That alone makes Ryan sick, and he has to close his eyes to prevent himself from vomiting.

He feels the whoosh of air as the man lifts his sword into the air, preparing to deliver his final blow. Ryan waits patiently, ready to go to his ancestors. He feels a far away sense of ridiculousness for giving up this easily, but it is the _angelorum_ way to accept Pluto as an old friend when eye-to-eye; it is the _daemonis_ way to taunt and defy him. There is no strike though, and he looks up to see a strong, heavy blade protruding from his assailant’s chest, coloured a deep red. As the blade is removed, a hand comes to the man’s shoulder to push his corpse away from landing on Ryan, who feels nauseous again all at once when he takes in the sight before him:

Shane stands, soaked in blood, his hair stuck flat against his face, with a nearly concerned look in his eyes. His longsword’s blade now slacks against the floor behind him, his grip on the hilt weak. From this distance (or lack thereof), Ryan can see the grey-black smoke permanently surrounding Shane’s person, which meshes with the spots clouding his own vision. Ryan doesn’t know if he says anything then, he just remembers the clattering of a sword and the rush of wind around his ears as he succumbs to the pull of sleep.

**\---**

Shane wonders, as he applies a healing paste to the open wound of an _angelus_ , just what his parents would say if they could see him now. He wonders if they would be proud of him, or if they would shrink away from him in horror as they had done when he was a child and first began to show his demonic blood. Shane’s heart aches, and he stubbornly turns his attention back to applying the paste to Ryan’s side. The last time his path crossed with Ryan, it was during their teenage years, when the tension between _angeli_ and _daemones_ was somewhat lesser than it is now, they had been brief lovers. Shane remembers the feeling of Ryan’s skin under his palm, how cold and beautiful he was compared to Shane’s inherent warmth. They had fit together like pieces of a puzzle, two halves of one whole. The memory leaves an acrid taste in his mouth and he scowls, wishing desperately that things could be different. He finishes dressing the wound with a compress, and then stands to leave Ryan’s side and let him rest.

He supposes that he could go and read a book or play the lyre; neither activity seems to call for him particularly now, but he would rather do something scholarly to calm his frayed nerves. Shane, though a _daemon_ , always has felt more at home when reading or painting or studying the sciences and arts. It soothes his soul. He looks over his shoulder at Ryan’s form and snorts; Ryan is headstrong with a penchant for violence, though he is calm in the way he kills. Shane has seen the way he looks at those he has slain, the reverence of a priest sending a man to Pluto with open arms shining bright in his dark eyes as he moves his blade through flesh. Shane is nearly envious of the esteem Ryan places in these human strangers, the way he seems to hold them all the same way, no matter whether friend or foe. 

A heavy feeling settles in his chest and he turns to the bookshelves lining the opposite wall of the room in which the two are situated, a makeshift study/bedroom in Shane’s _insula_. It is one of only two rooms in the whole place; the other is even smaller than this and acts more as a cupboard than a room. He presses his lips into a thin line and takes out a simple novella that he can curl up with against the heat of the fireplace softly crackling in the background, placed in an effort to keep Ryan from freezing to death; the _angeli_ already possess a below average body temperature, and the opposite is true for the _daemones_. 

He has given up on the novella and began sharpening the heavy blade of his longsword when Ryan stirs, shifting to move so suddenly that Shane has to dash across the room and pin his shoulders down. 

“Stop, stop, stop, you’re going to undo all the work I just did on your side.” Shane moves to grab his wrists next, pulling them away from taking the bandages off his wound. “Just… calm down, it’s only me. I brought you here to heal you, _amice_. You were in bad shape.”

“This is not a place I thought I would see again,” Ryan replies, his tone unreadable. Shane’s face twists, insides burning as he pulls away. “ _Auribus teneo lupum_ , being here.” He nods in understanding, rubbing his arm as he considers the bandages on Ryan’s side.

“You were going to bleed out in the _Domi Borealis_! What would you have had me do? I told you, _memento mori_ ; you would have died,” Shane says fiercely, making eye contact with Ryan as if challenging him.

“You saved me.” Ryan’s eyes are wide and without the hate Shane is accustomed to seeing in them. His voice is barely above a whisper, as if he speaks holy words from a sacred text; the tongue of a soothsayer. Shane’s ears tint pink and he shrugs noncommittally, the fire of his previous words suddenly dampened.

“Not really.” He turns slightly, intending to return to sharpening the blade of the sword which, only hours ago, had been blazed with blood, sinking deep through sinew and tissue in body after body. His fingers twitch involuntarily at the memory, a feeling of deep satisfaction rooted in his veins. Without him noticing, Ryan moves across the room. He presses against Shane’s side and grips his jaw, turning them eye to eye. Shane swallows a comment and raises his eyebrow carefully.

“No. You saved me.” Ryan accentuates his point with an open-mouthed kiss to Shane’s jaw, something Shane might, under any other circumstance, find counterproductive. 

“Oh.” It’s not the most intelligent thing to ever be said, but currently, Shane isn’t playing with a full deck, and the sound is more of an involuntary reflex than an active thought process. He leans into Ryan’s soft touch, an unspoken challenge in the way he puts his weight against him and smiles that dangerous smile. The _angelus_ pushes up on his toes to press his mouth to Shane’s, who shivers suddenly from the cool feeling of Ryan’s skin, allowing his warm hands to roam until he comes to the edge of the bandages. “You need rest.”

“What’s with the sudden morality, _amice_?” Ryan taunts him, using the friendly word as something less endearing and more mocking. Shane can hear the sting of his rejection underlaying Ryan's tone; it makes his hackles rise, but he urges Ryan back to the sofa with his hands. “Shane, it’s fine. It’ll heal quickly, the ichor helps it do that.”

“Ryan, I’m not about to debate you on this. You’re injured; therefore, you’re resting until you’re healed,” Shane replies firmly, allowing some of his _daemonis_ strength to ripple through his muscles as he manhandles Ryan back into a reclined position. A few years Shane’s junior, he almost has to crane his neck to scowl at him. It almost makes him smile, the familiarity of the situation; Ryan’s unprecedented hard-headedness makes him incredibly stubborn and hard to level with on the best of days. He rises to his full height and crosses his arms in a contest of Ryan’s obstinacy. 

“You’re insufferable,” Ryan gripes, laying against the sofa’s arm begrudgingly. Shane shrugs with a knowing smile and pivots his foot to walk back to the crude workbench stood in the corner of the study. He starts to sharpen the blade again, paying no mind to the sparks hitting his skin; fire has never phased him – for some _daemones_ , the invulnerability to fire is used to pilgrimage to Pluto’s palace in the underworld. Shane feels an involuntary shiver run through his spine at the thought of the god. “Why were you in that battle? You hate fighting.”

“Same reason as you,” Shane replies amiably. There’s no point, he thinks, in hiding his affections, both platonic and romantic, for Ryan. He’s wanted to be close with the _angelus_ in any way possible for as long as he can remember; Ryan’s own hold ups about inter-species relations is what has held it back. He scrunches his nose up and inspects the blade for any weaknesses or warps in the metal. “The Parcae willed it to be so. And,” Shane pauses to lift his sword, turning to face Ryan again, “I don’t hate fighting. It’s just not my favourite pastime.”

“Ironic,” Ryan remarks, raising his eyebrows and taking in the décor of Shane’s home. It hasn’t changed much, if at all, since Shane had first lived here, but Ryan hasn’t been around in a while. The walls are made of a darker brick than the _domus_ , and the spaces are cramped. He barely has space to unfurl to his full height when his neck starts to hurt from the permanent slouch. The sofa Ryan sleeps on mostly doubles as Shane’s bed, though he does have more appropriate sleeping wraps somewhere. The room is quite sparse; aside from his bookshelf and workbench, there’s not much else in the way of furniture. “You could live somewhere better than here, and yet you stay. Why?” Shane just shrugs and hangs his sword in the holder he installed for it not too long ago. Ryan’s eyes trail along the sharp edge of the blade and he winces, moving his fingers to skirt over the edges of the bandages Shane put there.

“Don’t touch them,” Shane warns. Ryan rolls his eyes dramatically and drops his head back, letting out a frustrated groan. “I’ll take them off when you’ve healed, don’t be annoying.” Ryan sighs, pulling himself to be more sat up. Shane can see the effort that it takes him, the strain in his muscles and the discomfort in his features, and yet he makes no move to help him. After all, it’s Ryan’s funeral, not his. The other man takes a second to collect himself after moving, which only showcases the weakness of his body; though, that’s not surprising, considering the volume of blood lost.

“Do not assume wrong from this, _daemon_ ,” Ryan starts, saying the word like it’s dirty. Shane drops his head to his chest, wishing that Ryan would have stayed in the reverent state he was in earlier, when he spoke kindly to Shane. “We aren’t friends.”

“I would never assume such a heinous thing, _amice_ ,” Shane replies mildly, not giving Ryan the satisfaction of addressing his angelic heritage the way he had addressed Shane’s demonic. For the most part, that’s considered rude, demoralising even, especially if a human does it. Shane would be more hurt, if he didn’t know that that was simply Ryan’s nature, the nature of most _angeli_. He runs his thumb over the indentation in the centre of his palm. “Your ego would never allow it.” He drops his hands then, to accentuate his point, something he does often which has always driven Ryan mad.

“My ego?” Ryan asks, his tone incredulous. Shane raises his eyebrows.

“Is it not your own neurosis that has stopped us from having any semblance of amiability between us for years?” he asks, trying to keep his tone mild. He had hoped, after Ryan’s display of gratitude, that they would not end up fighting, but it seems to be an inevitability between the two of them. “Ryan, you want things so deeply, I’ve seen it, yet you allow your pre-occupations to hold you back. That is why you’re a soldier, is it not? That’s why you serve an Empire you have nothing to do with, because soldiers are not expected to desire lives of luxury.”

“I don’t understand your point. I’ve never wanted material possessions.”

“I know. It’s a metaphor. Soldiers are expected to fight, not to befriend. I have never in my life met anyone as alone as you.”

Ryan scoffs. “I’m not alone.”

“When was the last time you had a conversation with anyone, and one not born out of necessity?” Ryan draws his lips into a thin line and doesn’t respond. “Exactly. _Si vis amari ama_ , Ryan. Nobody is going to punish you for that.”

“This is none of your business. I don’t understand why, _daemon_ , you feel you are within your right to psychoanalyze me. We are not friends, and that is for reasons far greater than, as you put it, my ‘neurosis’.”

“You care far too much about heritage, _amice_. Why do you constantly remind me of mine?”

“With the vain hope that you will remember your place in the world and shut the fuck up.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and solid. Shane blinks once, twice. The fire burns hotter in the background as he curls his fingers into his palms. Ryan is standing now, had moved so during their conversation. Shane can’t understand how they came to this, why Ryan felt the need to ruin the agreeable atmosphere they had established. He breathes out through his nose heavily.

“Next time I see you half-dead, I’ll leave you to crawl the rest of the way to Pluto’s door.” His control on his human persona is slipping; he can feel the inky blackness seeping into his sclera. “Get out.”

“It is my pleasure to,” Ryan snaps. He lets himself out of Shane’s _insula_ , closing the door heavily behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> glossary:  
> • angelus – angel; angeli – angels; angelorum – angel’s, of an angel  
> • daemon – demon; daemones – demons; daemonis – demon’s, of a demon  
> • domus – upper class house  
> • di immortales – by the immortal gods  
> • amice – friend  
> • memento mori – remember your mortality  
> • Parcae - female personifications of destiny in roman mythology  
> • auribus teneo lupum – I hold the ears of a wolf  
> • Domi Borealis – the House of the North  
> • insula – lower class house, like an apartment  
> • si vis amari ama – if you want to be loved, love


End file.
